Tires screech.
Gasps from passersby.
The swift movement of the Vespa knocks me off-balance, and it swerves sharply as it grinds to a halt, the ass end of it bashing into me, sending me flying.
I crash-land hard on my ass.
An older woman screams.
The crowd parts, but like a wave, swells and returns once people realize I’m okay and not severely hurt. Bodies surround me quickly.
The driver rips off his orange helmet and starts furiously yelling at me in Italian. I hear the standard refrains: “Va funculo” and “disgraziato,” but the rest is spat out so fast my head spins.
A young woman in Gucci sunglasses with black hair pulled back into a messy bun starts screaming in Italian at the Vespa driver, throwing her hands up at him until they’re both air-fighting with their hands like some sort of magic duel.
An older man bends down and asks me in broken English if I can move.
The chaos of the scene around me cements me in place, and I can’t answer. It’s like I’m not in my own body, I’m somewhere else entirely, at home watching everything unfold on Nonna’s TV screen.
Hands belonging to no one and everyone thrust a bottle of water in my face. The angst and expectation of it all causes anxiety to build in my chest.
Am I hurt?
Am I dead?
Or worse—am I bleeding? I don’t do well with blood . . .
Everything is blurry, fuzzy. Benny, Tyler, random heads and faces . . .
The hot sun beating on my forehead weighs me down.
The Vespa crashing into me replays over and over, time slowing to a halt as I float above my body, above the entire scene. Suddenly, voices that sound like Ricky and Cam and Ma and Topher and . . . me . . . say, “Who is Fielder Lemon?” again and again.
My limbs are weightless, lifeless, and my chest rises and falls at a rapid rate.
All my thoughts and fears and pain—everything I’ve suppressed since Ricky dumped me—swirl around me and push me back down to the ground, hard.
I try to remember what to do when I have a panic attack, but I can’t focus.
Suddenly, a hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice breathes life into me.
“Fielder, you’re okay—” It’s more of a statement than a question, more of a mantra of reassurance for the one delivering it.
Ricky.“I got you.” Concern pools in his eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“What—” I can’t say more. Words and meaning elude me.
“I saw the whole thing happen. I didn’t realize it was you until I got closer.” Ricky moves down my body, his hands inspecting every inch of my legs and arms before moving to my head. “No blood. Nothing looks broken.” He grabs the water bottle from the stranger who kept wiggling it in front of my face expectantly and uncaps it for me. “Drink, you look pale.”
“I’m fine.” When I try to stand, my legs give out. “Actually, water sounds great.”
He brings the bottle to my lips, places a hand on my lower back to steady me.
I can barely choke down a few baby sips.
Looking up, I focus on Ricky. The sweat on his brow. The concern etched into the lines next to his eyes. The way he folds his lips inward, and his teeth bite down in worry.
“When’d you get here?” I offer a smirk.
